Incendium
by deadseanbean
Summary: "I'm living in darkness. I'm just existing. Leeching off beautiful people like you. My soul is worthless." "Then why stay?" Ariane smiles at the elf, and flicks the ash from her last, mangled cigarette. "Nobody loves the light like a blind man, my friend."
1. Prologue

_Hopefully this fanfiction will be different from other 'legomances'. Without revealing too much (of a rather complex plot), this fic is going to be very dark, just to warn you. Themes explored include depression, addiction, abuse, murder and suicide, among others, but I will try and alert you all of triggers at the beginning of each chapter. With that being said, I hope you enjoy the story! _

_It is heavily inspired by **luchia's Gnomon on AO3,** so go check it out! Also, this chapter is the prologue, so it's rather short. Usually I write between 5000-10,000 words._

_**Triggers: none** (I don't think- if I'm wrong, message me!)_

* * *

><p>Ariane is somewhere in Paris. She doesn't know where exactly, but somehow she finds herself sitting on a cold and rickety old bench in one Parisian park or another. It's a crisp autumn morning; the type of day where you either want to stroll along the flaming leaf-ridden public pavements, or curl up under a mountain of blankets and forget the world exists. As the sharp wind rushes over her face and blows strands of hair into her eyes, Ariane is becoming rather adverse to the latter.<p>

Her leather gloves protect her hands, though her thin jeans and leather jacket do little to keep the chill out. Ariane shivers, reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slightly-crushed cigarette, then puts it to her lips. A lighter appears in front of her face.

"Merci," Ariane says around the cigarette. The end of the cigarette lights, and the taste is sweet on the tip of her tongue as she inhales. Her lungs constrict and, ironically, she feels _alive _as she exhales, opening her eyes to watch the slate-grey smoke curl into the air and disappear.

A man collapses onto the bench next to her, making the wood tremble, and he pulls out his own equally mangled cigarette from his jacket. "You're welcome," he replies, lighting and inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling. "I thought you would be out here."

Ariane takes a drag of the cigarette and breathes out. The warmth is welcome. "Yeah, well. It took you long enough."

The man raises a dark eyebrow. "Oh really? I didn't see you helping. At all."

"I was busy," Ariane answers, holding the cigarette in one hand and resting the other on her crossed legs. "And besides, I recall you telling me to stay behind." At this, the man rolls his brown eyes.

"You know it was for the best. Jean has a bad history with you. Had, even." The man flicks some ash onto the dull grey tarmac. Arianne can't feel but a little bristled at this, after all, he was the one that led to all of _this._

"Sometimes I wish you'd actually tell me what we're doing, Jason," Ariane sighs. "Or at least where we're going."

A car horn screams across the park from another busy suburban street. Ariane eyes a particularly fat French pigeon strut across a small path, and it pecks at the ground before taking flight again. She takes one last drag of the cigarette, closes her eyes, lets the breeze wash over her face, and then she's floating. It takes a bit of imagination, but suddenly Jason's hand is fisted in her collar and she is being yanked skywards and the world starts to spin. "I'll tell you where we're going," Jason murmurs, and a calloused hand speckled with rust-coloured blood rests on the side of her face. Ariane's hand falls limp and her cigarette silently falls to the ground. Blue eyes meet brown. "We're going home."

For a moment the world is silent. Jason hasn't told her why or how or when they're going home- but it's _home_. A wide smile breaks out across her face, likewise on Jason. "Now? Why?" she asks softly, somewhat in disbelief.

"Of course now. You remember the plan, don't you?" he spits. Jason's hand falls from her face and he harshly picks up the straps of the two duffle bags resting under the bench. Ariane cringes; she can hardly remember the finer details.

"Yeah. I just didn't expect for it to happen so soon…"

"Well, we have an hour until we catch the train from the Gare du Nord. We should move now," Jason cuts in, and tosses a bag to Ariane. Her hands wrap around the fabric handles and she's grateful that it's the clothes bag. She nods, and Jason swiftly vaults over the bench and strides toward the pedestrian crossing on the outer boundary of the small and grimy park.

Ariane follows.

* * *

><p>Ariane sits slumped against the window, resting her head against the pulsating glass. It feels like the vibrations are slowly turning her brain to mush, and she revels in the sensation. Outside the glass is nothing but the Channel Tunnel, and to her right is Jason, who is completing a page of Sudoku, reading the paper and listening to his iPod simultaneously. Ariane lets out a huff; when there is only silence, she is left alone with her own thoughts. She would kill for a cigarette right now. But there's a kid in front of them, and so she resists the urge.<p>

The last few days in Paris have left her rather emotionally drained; their cramped and dirty hotel room's poignant odour of disinfectant and cheap vodka had been overwhelming, even for Arianne, but then Jason's stale cigarettes made their home in a cracked ashtray by his bed. It had been uncomfortable to say the least, and Arianne's exhaustion had trebled during the weeks spent playing poker on the threadbare carpet and smoking out the grimy window and writhing beneath itchy and stained bed sheets. Before that was Moscow. That hotel hadn't been much better, but at least the shower's drain hadn't been clogged.

Ariane shakes her head. She didn't like the last few weeks, and frankly she doesn't want to remember them, so she tries to think of home. Her tiny apartment in Brixton. The curry house around the corner. The 24-hour Tesco's. Lost in thought, Ariane jumps as Jason's large hand rests on her knee. He leans over, grasps her face roughly between his fingers, and twists her head to look at him. Ariane complies.

"I really need a cigarette or a drink right now," he says softly. "And I know you do too." Wordlessly, Jason's hand leaves her face and he stands up, striding down the narrow walkway towards the back of the carriage, and Ariane silently follows. Knowing what they're about to do in a few hours makes Arianne feel queasy as her feet move across the thin carpet, and she doesn't want to, but they end up fucking in the cramped bathroom anyway.

* * *

><p>After a long and silent journey with only each other, a packet of crisps and buzzing artificial light, the train pulls into St Pancras station, London, England. Ariane avoids Jason's sharp eyes as he yanks their two small bags down from the overhanging compartment, and Ariane trails behind him through the sliding doors. Due to the experiences of the last hectic few years, both young adults slip away from the main crowd and, undetected, slip through a discreet side-door which leads to a break room belonging to the station employees.<p>

All of a sudden, Jason flings out his arm and blocks Ariane's path. She pauses, and Jason quietly pulls out his pistol from the inside of the jacket, just as a shadow passes by them, grumbling about wages. Ariane lets out a baited breath. Through a maze of corridors they go, silently, until they emerge onto Euston Road, and the sun is bright in Ariane's eyes and a red bus zooms past and a horn beeps and traffic lights ring and she's _home. _

"Getting emotional?" Jason teases, and Ariane rolls her eyes as he slips on his sunglasses and lights another crushed cigarette. It loosely dangles from his lips. "Yeah, well I missed it too."

Jason lights Ariane's own cigarette and flashes a large, flirtatious grin, and the smoke slowly oozing from his chapped lips stretched into a wicked smile is the last thing Ariane remembers.


	2. Chapter 1

**Content Warning: none **(I don't think, other than swearing)

* * *

><p>Pain. It prickles in her feet, stabs at the small of her back, pounds in her skull, and throbs in her neck. Why? Why did everything hurt so much? As if her mind is a clean slate, all she can see behind her eyes is a bland, white space. Something warm is trickling down her forehead. Something damp and soft is beneath her tingling fingertips. Moaning, her vision starts to fizzle into a picture. The ringing in her ears doesn't cease as she finally absorbs the view in front of her.<p>

"… the fuck?" she whispers aloud. She's lying flat on her back in mud, and above her a murky forest canopy, the gnarled branches of the tangled trees reaching toward a sun obscured by forest. "Jason?" Ariane calls. The pain in her temple and base of her skull pounds like a drum as her heart starts thumping erratically. "Jason? Jason! JASON!" she screams and screams and screams until her throat is hoarse.

"Jason!" she calls in a rasping voice, her eyes wide and scared and her bottom lip quivering and she fucking collapses onto her knees, her brain going into overdrive to try and make sense of all this. "O-okay," Ariane says to herself, rubbing her shaking hands across her face and squeezing her eyes shut. The pale light still burns at the back of her eyes. The last thing she can remember is Jason smiling wickedly, the corners of his mouth wrinkling and his eyes shining and his cigarette dangling from his lips. "Oh fuck…" she says to herself in a wobbly voice, "What the fuck? What the fuck?" _How the fuck is she in a forest? _Her veins are throbbing uncontrollably and her eyelids are as heavy as ten tonne blocks. Did Jason drug her? The realisation hits Ariane like a slap in the face, and she gasps and recoils into herself and suddenly she's hugging her knees and her chest is caving in on itself and her throat is closing up and she _can't fucking breathe._

"JASON, YOU BASTARD!" she shrieks, and her vision blurs from tears and the warmth is running down her cheeks like her eyes are fucking melting and everything fucking hurts. Sobbing, Ariane collapses onto her back, not able to hold her own weight anymore. Leaves crunch in her hands and her heart is about to burst from her ribcage. "You fucking prick." Ariane whispers in defeat, and disappointment floods her body. "I fucking hate you. I fucking _despise _you." She says to herself. But that isn't true. It never is.

She can't bring herself to pick her body off the floor; her heart is still pounding a hundred times a minute and her breathing is erratic and the oxygen can't get to her already fucked up brain, and she needs nicotine or alcohol or _something _to get her going and she reaches for the bag next to her-

"_Daro!"_

Ariane freezes. Opens her eyes. Slowly tilts her head up. "What in bloody h-"

"_Dîn!"_

Ariane's eyebrows knot together; standing before her are six men, or what she believes to be men, in some sort of medieval garb and with fucking bows and arrows pointing at her. They have long hair braided back, and their ears are bloody pointy? Is this Jason's idea of a joke?

"Ok- you can put the bows down…" Ariane says slowly because even though this probably is a joke, worse and weirder things have happened to her, and surprisingly her breathing is already slowed. Adrenalin: just as good as cigarettes and vodka.

The men's foreheads crease, and Ariane's does in turn. One of them, a rather handsome blond, whispers something to the one on his left. Something doesn't sit well with her. Well, other than the whole Dungeons and Dragons theme and fucking bows and arrows.

"Do you speak English? Hablas Español? Parlez-vous Français? No?"

The men look even more confused, and Ariane starts to panic again, slowly reaching for the bag… "We can all be civil here…" she looks up, and the men have advanced a few more paces, and she can see their pointed ears and beautiful faces and the stitch work on their costumes, and those arrows look exceptionally sharp too…

"Daro!"

In the space of a second, Ariane has whipped out the pistol from the inside of her jacket and has it pointed towards the men with still shaking arms and the eyes of one of the men widen and he panics and looses an arrow and she squeezes the trigger and there's an almighty _bang _and her ears are ringing and suddenly there's a burning pain in her stomach, and she falls and falls until the wind is knocked out of her and her lungs are dry and she's been fucking pierced by a fucking arrow? An arrow?

"Jason you bastard!" she screams again and her eyes are blinded by white-hot pain and her field of vision is dimming, and the trees are reaching towards her and her heart is beating so fast she can hear it pounding at the back of her head. Her pistol is pried from her fingers, and the beautiful blond is above her, his golden hair a halo against the dim sunlight and he looks like fucking Apollo, and she loses consciousness with a huge fucking grin on her fucking face.

* * *

><p>(AN: For the sake of reality, in a sense, modern English has derived from many Germanic languages and Latin, all civilizations which have and weren't in the world of Middle Earth. So, Ariane realistically wouldn't be able to speak Westron or Sindarin. Ariane will think and speak in English, which will be in _italics, _and Sindarin and Westron will be normal –just assume that when two elves are speaking to each other they are speaking in Elvish)

* * *

><p>"What is the meaning of this?"<p>

Legolas eyes his father coolly. "We found her in the forest. She is not well, father."

Thranduil's fair face stays as unmovable as marble. "Though I understand this, she injured Frerin," he replies in a rich, deep voice. Legolas dips his head slightly, knowing this to be true, and the warm hope dissipates from his chest.

"She was scared. I don't think she understood us; we did not know the words she spoke, yet we have heard many tongues spoken in Arda."

"Even so…" Thranduil rises from his great throne, slowly and precisely gliding down the steps with echoing feet to stand face-to-face with his son. "She is dangerous, is she not?"

"Only with her weapon, we have taken it away from her," Legolas answers. A shiver runs down his spine like frozen fingertips as he remembers her wild eyes and shaking hands and quivering lips. He swallows. "Let her have use of the healers, and when she is recovered we will send her on her way. Perhaps to Rohan, where her kin will help her."

"Why does she need help?" Thranduil questions sharply, and he turns away. For a moment Legolas believes his cause lost. But then, "She may heal from the arrow wound, but no more. Once she is recovered she will be sent away."

Legolas lets out a sigh of relief. Although his father is only a shadow of his former self, below the icy exterior was still a kind, loving elf. "Thank-you ada."

Thranduil smiles, and Legolas feels his heart swell with joy. They are a rare sight. "Go, I believe she will be awake now."

Legolas holds a hand to his heart, Thranduil mirroring, then the young elf sweeps from the room, down a twisting pathway, across a deep and seemingly bottomless cavern, and down a narrow corridor. The torches flicker across the walls and cast shadows across the stone, and by the bright flames Legolas finds himself in front of a door.

The healing rooms are unlike those of Rivendell. In Imladris, the rooms are open and fresh and airy, but here they are cosy and enclosed. _Better that than being eaten by a giant spider,_ Legolas muses to himself. He knocks on the door.

"Come in," a tired voice calls. Legolas opens the slightly creaky door and steps inside.

"Has it been a busy day?" the prince asks the healer smugly. Forvenor looks up with an exasperated glance, shoots the prince a dirty look, then his eyes flicker down to his patient again. Legolas chuckles, and, spying Frerin sleeping soundly on a soft feather bed, strolls to the healer.

"Frerin will recover," Forvenor says without looking up.

"Good," Legolas breathes out a sigh of relief; Frerin was a very active member of the community, and to lose him, or another elf, to the shadow or the call of the sea would be a heavy loss. Legolas sits on the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of the young ellon's chest. Bandages are bound around his ribcage. "Did you retrieve the weapon?" the prince asks.

"Aye," Forvenor replies, and he stands up, brushes his leggings down, and hands a corked bottle to the prince. The glass glints in the bright lamplight, but a small and bloody hunk of metal rattles within.

"Curious," Legolas murmurs. He flicks the cork away and peers inside. "Might I have a closer look?"

Forvenor nods. "It is unlike anything I have seen before," the healer admits, brushing some brown hair from his face. "Only a launch of great speed could allow such a small, insignificant piece of metal to penetrate an elf's body and cause substantial damage…" Forvenor looks over at the sleeping form of Frerin, with a look of somewhat pity in his hazel eyes. "It almost carried on through his back. Not clean, like an arrow piercing flesh, but violent, and forceful."

Forvenor whips around to face the prince, whose frown deepens. "Must I care for her?" the healer asks sharply, and his eyes quickly turn towards the unconscious form of Ariane in the far corner of the room. Forvenor is breathing heavily. Legolas feels a rush of sorrow for the elf. Carefully, he sets the bottle down onto the bedside table, and he rests a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"This is unlike you, mellon-nȋn. Usually you find joy in helping others," Legolas says softly. Forvenor's eyes can't meet his own.

"Yes… but she has injured Frerin with such a horrific device…" he replies quietly, and his words are shaky with inner turmoil. "I would not care for an orc, why should I care for her?"

Legolas sighs, and his hand leaves Forvenor's shoulder and drops to his side. "I shall care for her myself, if I have too."

"My lord…"

"I respect your wishes, my friend, but this woman must be helped. She… she…" Legolas tails off and licks his lips. "I fear she is alone. She was rather… unhinged, shall we say, and I believe we can help her."

Forvenor watches with unsure eyes as Legolas stands over the mortal. None other than dwarves and one hobbit have been caught trespassing in the Woodland realm for more than sixty years, and this appearance of a lone young woman has ignited a streak of curiosity within the prince.

"If it please you, I will take care of her until she wakes up." Forvenor says with defeat. "But no more. I, much like the rest of the realm, would like her gone come the morrow."

It is more than Legolas could've hoped for. "Hannon-le."

Under Legolas' gaze, Ariane doesn't stir. Her lips twitch every so often, and her eyes move under her eyelids less so, but she is mainly dead to the world, perhaps to her delight. Legolas tears his eyes away from her to see Forvenor pulling some blankets over Frerin. "Hadron is searching through the woman's bags as we speak," the healer murmurs, all the while tucking Frerin in affectionately, and Legolas' lips quirk into a small smile.

"I will see to the task, then," Legolas throws one last glance at the healer before leaving, a smile on his face.

* * *

><p>True enough, Legolas finds Hadron searching through the bags in the armoury. "Legolas!" the youth cries, his large blue eyes even wider than usual with excitement.<p>

"It is good to see you again," Legolas grins. Hadron, being only a third of Legolas' age and still barred from patrols, was even more reckless than the prince. One unfortunate accident in particular led to the stables burning down.

Consequently, the king had no choice but to reduce the youth to armoury duty. Days spent polishing and sharpening and organising was without a doubt terribly dull, and so Hadron probably thought this new enigma the highlight of the decade.

Numerous items, mainly pieces of clothing, are strewn messily across a long workbench. Legolas' eyes widen; perhaps he did understand the youth's excitement. Hadron gestures to the two material bags.

"Even the bags are interesting," the youth babbles, and he hastily passes one to the prince who turns it over in his hands. The material is black and rough to touch, the straps are long, and the underside has little nubs of metal for the bag to sit on. "Look," Hadron's fingers clasp a triangular-shaped piece of metal and he tugs, causing the material to magically split as he pulls the contraption down. As Legolas looks on curiously, Hadron pulls it up again and the bag seals shut once more.

"It took me some time to understand how to open these, but isn't it wonderful?" Hadron babbles, and after seeing the amused expression on Legolas' face he coughs and looks down at the table. "Yes- well- ahem," he gestures to the clothes. "This bag mainly contained the usual travelling gear."

Legolas sees that the clothes are simple but well-made. From what the woman was wearing, there is a strange jacket made of leather, and the elf is amused to see it studded on the sleeves, and thin trousers made of some rough material which are also black, with one of those odd contraptions to fasten them. The other articles of clothing are very similar, bar some bright garments which Legolas thinks to be underwear.

Two items look like half-corsets, but the prince says nothing as Hadron scoops one up and holds it in front of his eyes, the strikingly-coloured lace obscuring his face. Legolas barely refrains from laughing. Annoyingly, Hadron sets them down again. Although the garments are different to normal attire, Legolas doesn't find them to be too interesting, apart from some truly amazing socks which look as though someone had painstakingly painted on a scene of flowers with only the finest of paints, yet on further inspection he sees that the design is part of the material.

Next to the clothes is a small pile of more curious items; a black metal and glass rectangle sits on top of a scarf with a pair of darkened spectacles, a book with words Legolas doesn't understand by it, a pair of shiny but oddly shaped boots, a hand mirror, a packet of rolled-up pieces of parchment filled with something nasty smelling that makes Legolas' nose wrinkle, a flask of some poignant and strong alcohol, an extremely small container filled with liquid, another little bag with some pieces of jewellery and powder, some parchment, pencils, and other vaguely-recognisable items.

Legolas skims through the items of clothing, but then a frown graces his features. Some of these garments look far too big to belong to the young woman. "Is something wrong?" Hadron asks. Legolas looks up.

"Do all of these clothes belong to only one woman? These tunics look too big for her frame, for _my _frame."

"Legolas?" Hadron breathes, and the prince looks up to see the youth gazing at the pages of a small, leather book inscribed with gold lettering and some sort of emblem. Inside is a perfect portrait of the woman. Her hair is much longer and she looks very ill in the picture, but it's unmistakably her. "Is it her?" Hadron asks in a small voice.

"Aye," Legolas replies, still in awe at the heavily-detailed painting. "Perhaps this will tell us where she hails from, I shall ask my father if he recognises the coat-of-arms."

Legolas looks down to continue rifling through the items. "It is a perfect portrait…" he hears Hadron murmur, and the youth lightly runs his fingers over the paper. "So realistic…"

"Come," Legolas says sharply, "Shall we look through the other bag?"

The tips of Hadron's ears redden and he hastily passes the other bag to the prince. It remains unopened. Legolas gives the youth a questioning look. "I- I- could sense something dark in that bag." Hadron admits quietly, almost in a shameful tone.

Legolas sighs, though a dark feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. "I am glad you waited, Hadron." Carefully, and with some dread, Legolas tugs the zip down. The material pulls apart. Legolas peers inside. His eyes flutter shut.

"What is in that vile bag? Is it true?" Hadron questions with a squeaky voice, panic flaring in his wide eyes. Legolas says nothing, but quickly zips the bag up again. He opens his eyes.

"Fetch Gaeron, tell him to send more guards to watch over the mortal." Legolas hurriedly orders, his hands gripping the workbench tightly. Seeing Hadron frozen to the spot, he cries; "Make haste! Go!"

Nodding quickly, Hadron takes one last look at the bag before he bolts for the door. Legolas' head hangs as he pushes the bag of guns and other leather book under the workbench with a violent kick.

* * *

><p>Not long after, Thranduil appears in the armoury. "Legolas? What in Eru's name is going on?" he asks. His thick eyebrows are drawn together in a frown. Legolas tosses the bag onto the counter. Thranduil coolly regards the bag and looks inside, eyebrows raising slightly, but his stoic expression still holds. "I see."<p>

Legolas crosses his arms. "What is a young woman's business with such murderous weapons?" the prince ponders. For the first time in years, Legolas is genuinely befuddled. "Why would she carry them on her person?"

"We will question her when she wakes up," Thranduil pushes the bag back to his son, who eyes it with contempt. "Once she wakes from her slumber, and once we have sufficiently questioned her, she will be moved to the dungeons. I will not have this kingdom endangered.

Legolas nods in agreement. As Thranduil turns to leave, Legolas suddenly remembers something. "Father… we found this leather book amongst her garments. Do you recognise this coat of arms?"

The king's interest peaks and he raises an eyebrow, and takes the book from his son's outstretched hand to consider the emblem. Emblazoned in gold, it displays some sort of crowned shield with a crowned lion and a horse with a horn either side. In lettering which looks vaguely like Westron, or the Common Tongue, are the words 'Dieu et mon droit.' Thranduil, having never seen the phrase nor the design, glances at Legolas with a look of both curiosity and dread.

"I recognise it not," he says, idly flicking through the pages of the book, until his eyes land on the portrait. He hands it quickly back to the prince. "How is Frerin?"

Legolas sighs and leans against the workbench, his mind wondering back to the young, bandaged elf. "He will live, though the wound is unlike anything Forvenor has encountered before, it was so vicious…" his ocean blue eyes snap up to regard his father. "Could she be one of the men of the East? Those of the Rhun have grown restless as of late…"

"We will not know until she awakes," he replies, and in a moment of fatherly compassion, Thranduil rests a comforting hand on the shoulder of his only son. Legolas gives a small smile, calming, yet his head snaps to the side a second before Hadron comes rushing in again, not quite panting but rather out of breath.

"My lords, she has awoken!" he cries, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. A small, shallow cut has opened on his right cheek and crimson is slowly trickling down his cheek.

Immediately Thranduil sweeps from the room and rushes down the hallway, with both youths following in a state of wonder and shock. Other elves watch on as the trio make their way to the armoury; some whisper gossip amongst themselves, the others simply turn away, yet none approach. Down twisting halls they go, but as they get closer and closer to the healing rooms they can hear horrible, tortured shrieking. Legolas' heart is in his throat and his blood is pounding in his ears; _let Forvenor and Frerin be well, _he pleads_, let them see another day…_

Thranduil forcefully flings open the door and it ricochets violently off the stone wall.

In the bed set against the far wall, the young woman is shrieking and shouting and wailing and flailing, but she's mainly _pleading._

"_Let me go!" _Ariane screams hoarsely, and she's thrashing around trying to shake these men off her but they're so fucking _strong _she can't move, she's sweating like a pig and she can feel her wound rip open again and she cries out in agony. "_Please!" _Her head falls to the side of the soft pillow, and through tear-blurred vision she can see that handsome blond staring intently from across the room, lips parted in awe but eyes wide with fright.

Legolas can't move. He swallows the lump in his throat and his fingers twitch. But he can't move. His throat is dry again and his tongue darts out to lick his chapped lips. "Legolas!" his father bellows, and Legolas is suddenly drawn back to reality and he tries to avoid the woman's pained gaze but he _can't_; she's in so much pain and his soul is on fire and he tries to speak but he _can't. _Someone yells at him to hold her down, and then he finds himself holding onto her thin wrists with shaking hands and he's looking into her eyes. They're blue, like his, but she's crying.

Amongst the chaos Forvenor is trying to force the woman to drink some dreamwine to calm her. She's not taking it though, and the milky liquid is running from the corners of her mouth and down her small chin. _Please, _she's saying, _please._

Ariane knows better than to accept a strange, sweet-smelling liquid from strangers, even though she's in fucking agony because of the fucking arrow and the fucking bright flashing lights that stab at the back of her eyes when she tries to escape the vice-like grips on her ankles and shoulders. She lurches to the side again only to be pushed back onto the bed. "_Jason!"_

"Calm, my lady." Forvenor is urging her. His hand rests on her forehead which has beaded with sweat and he murmurs minor but soothing healing spells which have mainly been forgotten over the millennia, but they are no less powerful. Contrary to her inner battle, Ariane exhausts herself screaming and crying and shaking, and she settles down slightly, not having the energy to go on, but her heart is pounding erratically and feels as if it's going to leap out of her throat. "Calm…"

A hand reaches down to lift up her shirt and Ariane panics again and wrenches her leg from an easing grip and kicks out, but her foot is caught once more and she spits but then steel is kissing her throat. Ariane freezes. She looks up. She exhales slowly.

A regal, platinum blond man is staring down at her with a piercing, icy gaze and he exudes such power that she feels like she's melting into the pillows. The sharp blade he's holding is cold against the skin of the column of her throat and she stills, feeling the metal bite into her flesh, and she lets go of the wrists gripping her own, which she had somehow gotten hold of during the chaos. They withdraw, and she sees with bloodshot eyes that it's Apollo hovering over her, angry red marks on his pale, creamy skin where there were none on her own. He looks sad.

One thing Ariane was sure of was that she was in no ordinary hospital, or hide-out or safe house or whatever. These men were not armed, save for intricate daggers and long, white knives. She swallows and licks her lips. She looks away from the regal elf's eyes and finds herself gazing at Apollo again. She refuses the cup of sweet liquid again, and some clean cloth is placed in her mouth. She doesn't fight.

The sharp prick of a needle is quickly replaced with metal piercing her skin and digging into her flesh and she bites down on the cloth but she also bites her tongue and blood seeps through her lips and dribbles from the corner of her mouth and she can taste the metallic tang, and she groans, but she doesn't scream. She _can't_.

The regal elf growls something to the young man she cut earlier with her fingernails and he nods, eyes flickering to her own before he speeds off, trembling. The room is eerily silent as the doctor, or what she thinks is a doctor (he's doing his job well), finishes re-stitching her arrow wound. Ariane has been hurt many times before, but she's never been shot with a fucking _arrow. _She lets out a dry, humorous laugh, and the men look at her strangely.

The bedsheets are softer than those of an ordinary hospital, and there's no IV or medical equipment or _anything, _not even electric lights, and Ariane frowns. Where on Earth is she?

Subconsciously, her gaze is drawn to Apollo again. He's regarding her with both a look of fright and awe. He's unbelievably handsome; high cheekbones, strong, dark brows, clear and expressive blue eyes, nice lips, long, blond hair, and tall. He looks as though he's been carved from marble like the sculptures of old, or has leapt out of the pages of The _Iliad. Apollo and Dionysus, _she thinks to herself, _Achilles and Patroclus…_

Legolas is slowly brought out of his daze. The young woman is no longer resisting their aid, physically anyway. Forvenor ties off the last stich to the woman's abdomen and cleans the blood away one last time, then quickly pulls the woman's red-stained shirt down, just as Hadrin returns with a map.

Thranduil, still looking at the woman in suspicion, lays the map on the woman's knees. She raises an eyebrow at him and he sighs. "I fear this language barrier will be rather… cumbersome," he says coolly, unamused. He taps the area on the map where the palace is in Mirkwood. The woman studies the sheet of parchment, her face drawn into a frown, then her eyes suddenly widen and she flips the sheet over and over again and then she suddenly wretches and Forvenor holds out a bucket just in time for her to bring up the contents of her stomach. Thranduil looks away in distaste and he angrily taps the map again.

Ariane feels like _shit. _Shittier than she has ever felt before. Well, almost. She wipes the foul-tasting spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand and she sees that she's trembling, and her breathing is shallow and her head hurts so badly. "_This can't be happening," _she says aloud, startling the other men in the room. _"I am in England and I am going to go home soon,"_ she says, convincing herself more than anything. Her voice is trembling and salty tears are falling from her eyes and her chest is heavy and she's going to throw up. _"I'm going to go home and see mum and dad and I'm going to hug them and tell them how much I missed them and we'll play monopoly until midnight and eat Malteasers until we all feel ill…"_

It's plain to see that the woman is despairing. Thranduil takes the map away and carefully lies it on the bedside table. "She is not from here," the king says quietly. The other elves, momentarily tearing their eyes away from the despairing woman, all look to their king for his decision. He does not meet their gaze. "I have messages to send." Thranduil announces after some thought, while turning the little leather book over and over in his hands, then he meets his son's eyes and presses it into his trembling hands. He leaves without another word.

Somehow Legolas finds his tongue. He pockets the book and rests a hand on Forvenor's shoulder, and the healer looks up wearily. "Rest," the prince murmurs. In the first time in years, Forvenor offers no resistance, and he goes and almost collapses on the empty bed next to Frerin, who, during the chaos, had drawn his blankets around himself. Forvenor rubs his face with his hands and sighs heavily.

The woman's ugly sobbing is muffled by her damp pillow and Hadron is standing by the bed awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Being left to command, Legolas tells him to clean his face and rest too, and to bring some simple food for the young woman that would be good for her delicate stomach. Hadron nods weakly and leaves on shaky legs.

"It has been many a century since we encountered anything akin to this," Forvenor says aloud, still gazing up at the carved ceiling, almost in veiled wonder. He turns his head to face the prince, and Legolas can see and sense the fear in the healer's eyes. "You were but a child last time. A man stumbled into our realm, screaming that he was from another world, from what we knew. His garb was wildly different though, just a sheet wrapped around his body. He screamed in a tongue we could not understand." Forvenor whispers hoarsely. He's barely audible over the woman's sobs.

"Did the tongue sound familiar to that of hers?" the prince asks. Forvenor shakes his head.

"Nay. Simliar, but not the same," Forvenor's gaze returns to the ceiling. "He died not long after."

"How?"

"He… he…" Forvenor seems to choke on his words, a flood of memories a millennia old invading his mind's eye. "He was in the dungeons, and he hung himself using the ties from his sandals. He carved strange words into the cell walls."

Legolas closes his eyes, his heart seeming to treble in weight and it takes everything to not fall to the floor. He mumbles a quick prayer. "May he find peace after death."

Forvenor nods, and quickly tosses onto his side to sleep.

Ariane has stopped crying. The language the men are talking in is soothing; it sounds Welsh, but in her heart she knows she is no longer in Britain. She lifts her head as the pillow is slowly pulled out from under her, and a new, clean and dry one replaces it. A tap on her shoulder makes her draw a deep breath and turn over, and she sees him. "_Apollo," _she breathes. Although confused, he offers her a kind smile, but she struggles to return one. She just _can't_. His soft hands appear in front of her face with a small, reddish-brown leather book. _A passport._

Legolas jumps in surprise when the woman snatches the book from him and flips the pages until she finds the portrait within. She lets out another tortured, strangled sob and she runs her trembling fingers across the man's face. "_Jason…" _she whispers. Is that the man's name?

She cradles the book to her chest as tears stream down her face and over the jewels embedded in her cheeks, and she collapses against the pillow and sobs and Legolas feels a sad _pang _in his chest and then it feels as though his soul is ripping itself apart. He doesn't like to see things in pain.

He also doesn't want to ask about the strange weaponry. In the woman's state of despair and the language barrier it would be difficult to question her, so he will wait until she can communicate and after Thranduil has sent messages to the other elf lords. Perhaps the Lady Galadriel or Lord Elrond can help, he thinks, but until then, the kingdom will not be in danger until the weapons fall into her shaking hands again.

She is delirious. She cannot be trusted. But she can be helped. A small yet significant smile finds itself on the prince's face. He taps the young woman's arm lightly and she looks up at him with red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes and her nose is running and she sniffles, and the smell of tears curls itself around his keen nose. Legolas hasn't seen someone cry for many years.

Ariane looks up, and through her unfocused eyes the lamps glow behind his golden head and it looks like he has a fucking _halo. "Apollo,_" she breathes in awe. He smiles widely, and she does too, and God, he is fucking _ethereal._

Apollo? Was that her name? The prince points a finger to his chest, and says; "Legolas."

"Legolas," her voice is no more than a whisper. Her eyes brighten in delirium for a second. "Apollo…"

"Shhh…" Legolas hushes her, and Hadron appears behind him with some broth and bread and water. "Rest now, Apollo."

Suddenly the long weeks spent smoking and drinking and conning and killing and fucking merge into one, short horror film in front of her very eyes but they're gone in a blink of an eye and Ariane sighs in content, her vision dimming with each second, but she's in a warm bed and can still taste the exceptionally sweet potion crusted at the corners of her mouth. Her tongue swipes the rest of the way and the taste is wonderful.

"Losto vae, Apollo." Legolas pulls the blanket over the woman. "Le nathlam hí…"

_Ariane_, she thinks, slowly drifting away as the dreamwine slips into her bloodstream, _my name is Ariane._

* * *

><p>If you see any spellinggrammar mistakes please let me know! I mostly write in the past tense so this is very new to me and I mess up. A lot.

Losto vae- sleep well

Le nathlam hí- you are welcome here


End file.
